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EDELWEISS 


AN    ALPINE   RHYME 


MARY    LOWE    DICKINSON 


NEW    YORK 

1876 


COP'YRIGHT, 

1876, 
BY  MARY  LOWE  DICKINSON. 


GIFJ 


IN  memory  of  the  loving  kindness  that  has  wel 
comed  them  one  by  one,  the  author  dedicates  these 
verses  to  the  friends  at  whose  request  they  have  been 
gathered  together. 


M640734 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I. — EDELWEISS 7 

II. — THANKSGIVING 14 

III. — IF  WE  HAD  BUT  A  DAY 16 

IV. — "  GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS." 18 

V. — To  A  FRIEND  "  ON  THE  NILE." 22 

VI. — FORGIVEN 24 

VII.— PRAISE 27 

VIII.— WHY  ? 28 

IX. — A  PICTURE 30 

X. — A  PICTURE 33 

XI.— DEAD 35 

XII.—"  IF  THY  RIGHT  HAND  OFFEND  THEE  " 37 

XIII.— TOIL  AND  REST 39 

XIV.— Two  AND  ONE 41 

XV. — AMONG  THE  SAINTS 43 

XVI. — ENDURANCE 49 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XVII.— THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN 5 l 

XVIII.— MARY  BEARING  THE  DOVES  TO  SACRIFICE.  54 

XIX.— ALONE 57 

XX. — LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS 59 

XXI.— A  PRAYER 6l 

XXII.— VENETIA  LIETH  DEAD 63 

XXIII.— VENETIA  WAKES  AGAIN 67 

XXIV.— TRUE  FREEDOM ?o 

XXV.— THE  LAST  OF  THE  SUMMER I2 

XXVI.— THE  LORD  is  MY  SHEPHERD 75 

XXVII.—  THE  EVERY-DAY  SORROW 77 

XXVIII.—"  A  LAMP  TO  THY  FEET,  AND  A  LIGHT  TO 

THY  PATH." 8o 

XXIX.— NOTHING  LOST 

XXX.— THE  KNEELING  PLACE 84 

XXXI.—"  THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN." 85 

XXXII.— A  WISH 89 

XXXIII.— A  PRAYER 9° 

XXXIV.— THANKS  FOR  FLOWERS 9T 

XXXV.— LABORARE  EST  ORARE 93 

XXXVI. — MY  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY 98 

XXXVIL— A  MOTHER'S  QUESTION I02 


I. 

EDELWEISS. 


BY  Alpine  road,  beneath  an  old  fir  tree, 
Two  children  waited  patiently  for  hours ; 
One  slept,  and  then  the  elder  on  her  knee 
Made  place  for  baby  head  among  her  flowers. 

And  to  the  strangers  climbing  tired  and  slow, 
She  called,  "Buy  roses,  please,"  in  accents  mild, 

As  if  she  feared  the  echo,  soft  and  low, 

Of  her  own  voice  might  wake  the  sleeping  child. 

And  many  came  and  passed,  and  answered  not 
The  pleading  of  that  young  uplifted  face, 

While,  in  each  loiterer's  memory  of  the  spot, 
Dwelt  this  fair  picture  full  of  patient  grace. 


ED  EL  WEISS. 

And  one  took  offered  flowers  with  gentle  hand, 
And  met  with  kindly  glance  the  timid  eyes, 

And  said,  in  tones  that  children  understand, 
"  My  little  girl,  have  you  the  Edelweiss  ?  " 


11  Oh,  not  to-day,  dear  lady,"  said  the  child. 

"I  cannot  leave  my  little  sister  long  ; 
I  cannot  carry  her  across  the  wild  ; 

She  grows  large  faster  than  my  arms  grow  strong. 

"  If  you  stay  on  the  mountain  all  the  night, 
At  morning  I  will  run  across  the  steep, 

And  get  the  mossy  flowers  ere  sun  is  bright, 
And  while  my  baby  still  is  fast  asleep." 

"Your  baby,  little  one  ?  "     "  Oh,  yes/'  she  said. 

"  Yonder,  you  see  that  old  stone  tower  shine? 
There,  in  the  church-yard,  lies  my  mother,  dead, 

And  since  she  died  the  babv  has  been  mine." 


EDEL  WEISS. 

Soft  shone  the  lady's  eyes  with  tender  mist, 
And  ever,  as  she  pressed  toward  fields  of  ice, 

She  pondered  in  her  heart  the  half-made  tryst 
With  this  young  seeker  of  the  Edelweiss. 


in. 


At  night,  safe  sheltered  in  the  convent's  fold, 
Where  white  peaks  stand  in  ermined  majesty  ; 

Where  sunsets  pour  great  throbbing  waves  of  gold 
Across  the  white  caps  of  a  mountain  sea. 

At  morn,  with  face  subdued  and  reverent  tone, 
Slow  winding  down,  with  spirit  hushed  and  awed, 

As  from  a  vision  of  the  great  white  throne, 
Or  vail  half  lifted  from  the  face  of  God. 

The  blessing  of  the  hills  her  soul  had  caught 
Made  all  the  mountain-track  a  path  of  prayer, 

Along  which  angel  forms  of  loving  thought 

Led  to  the  trysting-place  ;— no  child  was  there  ! 


10  EDELWEISS. 

The  wind  was  moaning  in  the  old  fir  tree, 
The  lizards  crawling  o'er  the  mossy  seat ; 

But  no  fair  child,  with  baby  at  her  knee, 
And  in  the  mold  no  track  of  little  feet. 


IV. 

No  faded  flowers  strewing  the  stunted  grass  ; 

No  young  voice  singing  clear  its  woodland  strain  ; 
No  brown  eyes  lifted  as  the  strangers  pass  ; 

A  murmur  in  the  air,  like  far-off  rain  ; 

A  black  cloud,  creeping  downward  swift  and  still, 
Answered  her  listening  heart,  a  far-off  knell, 

Almost  before  there  swept  along  the  hill 
The  slow,  deep  tolling  of  the  valley  bell. 

Once  more  there  drifted  'cross  the  face  the  mist ; 

Once  more,  with  trembling  soul  and  tender  eyes, 
She  hurried  on  to  keep  the  half-made  tryst, 

To  meet  the  child,  to  claim  the  Edelweiss. 


EDELWEISS.  ii 

Nearer  she  came  and  nearer  every  hour, 

Her  heart-beat  answering  quick  the  deep  bell's  call  ; 

It  led  he-r  to  the  shadow  of  the  tower, 

The  shining  tower  beside  the  church-yard  wall. 


v. 


She  found  her  there — a  cross  rose  at  her  feet, 
And  burning  tapers  glimmered  at  her  head; 

Her  white  hands  clinging  still  to  blossoms  sweet, 
And  God's  peace  on  her  face  ;  the  child  was  dead  ! 

Quaint  carven  saints  and  martyrs  stood  around. 

Each  clasped  the  symbol  of  his  sacrifice ; 
But  this  fair  child,  in  saintly  sweetness  crowned, 

Held,  as  they  held  the  cross,  her  Edelweiss. 


Early  that  morn  a  shepherd,  on  the  height, 
In  cleft  of  rocks  sought  shelter  from  the  cold, 

And  there  he  found  this  lamb,  all  still  and  white, 
Entered  already  to  the  heavenly  fold. 


i  2  EDEL  WEISS. 

The  Edelweiss  grew  on  that  rocky  steep  ; 

The  brave  child-feet  had  climbed  too  fast  and  far  ; 
And  so  had  come  to  her  this  blessed  sleep, 

This  blessed  waking  'neath  the  morning  star. 


VI. 

The  light  within  the  little  church  grew  dim, 
And,  ere  the  last  gleam  faded  in  the  west, 

While  childish  voices  sang  the  vesper  hymn, 
A  lady,  with  a  babe  upon  her  breast, 

Crept  silently  adown  the  shadowy  aisle, 

And,  kneeling,  bathed  with  tears  the  hand  of  ice, 
And  laid  it  on  the  babe,  and  saw  it  smile, 

And  whispered,  ' '  I  have  named  her  Edelweiss  !  " 


When  one  more  day  had  seen  its  shadows  fall, 
That  old  stone  tower  gleaming  in  the  sun, 

And  the  great  olive  by  the  western  wall, 

Shaded  two  humble  graves  where  had  been  one. 


EDEL  WEISS.  1 3 

And  by  and  by,  above  the  dear  child's  head, 
Arose  a  little  stone  with  quaint  device. 

When  summer  blossoms  died  around  the  bed, 
A  marble  hand  grasped  still  the  Edelweiss. 


1 4  THA  NKSGI VING. 

II. 

THANKSGIVING. 

r  I  ""RUE  I  have  lost  my  treasures ;  yet  to-day 

-*-       I  cannot,  grieving,  pray, 
Mourning  the  joys  of  which  I  am  bereft. 
I  lift  mine  eyelids  up,  instead,  and  say  : 
Behold  how  much  is  left. 

Still  soft  along  the  sky  the  white  clouds  run  ; 

Still  shines  the  blessed  sun  ; 
Still  voice  of  running  water  greets  my  ear  ; 
Still  cross  my  twilights  stars  gleam  one  by  one, 

And  I  can  see  and  hear — 

Can  see  the  warm  light  on  the  shaded  ways, 

Can  hear  the  birds'  sweet  praise, 
And  oft  the  wayward  wind  among  the.  leaves, 
And  the  low  drip  of  rain  in  clouded  days 
Upon  my  cottage  eaves.    . 


TIIAXKSGIVING.  15 

So,  while  summer  blossoms  clothe  the  ground. 

Or  falls  the  happy  sound 
Of  little  children's  voices  in  the  air, 
I  still  shall  find  the  world  with  sweetness  crowned, 

And  comfort  everywhere  ; 

Still  find  a  grateful  song  for  moans  of  pain, 

A  gentle  triumph  strain, 
To  calm  the  sadness  of  my  halting  verse. 
Under  each  seeming  loss  a  certain  gain  ; 

A  blessing  in  each  curse. 


1 6  IF  WE   HAD   BUT  A    DAY. 

III. 
IF  WE  HAD  BUT  A  DAY. 

WE  should  fill  the  hours  with  the  sweetest  things, 
If  we  had  but  a  day  ; 
We  should  drink  alone  at  the  purest  springs 

In  our  upward  way  ; 
We  should  love  with  a  life-time's  love  in  an  hour, 

If  the  hours  were  few  ; 

We  should  rest,  not  for  dreams,  but  for  fresher  power 
To  be  and  to  do. 

We  should  guide  our  wayward  or  wearied  wills 

By  the  clearest  light  ; 
We  should  keep  our  eyes  on  the  heavenly  hills, 

If  they  lay  in  sight  ; 
We  should  trample  the  pride  and  the  discontent 

Beneath  our  feet  ; 
We  should  take  whatever  a  good  God  sent, 

With  a  trust  complete. 


IF  WE  HAD  BUT  A    DAY.  17 

We  should  waste  no  moments  in  weak  regret, 

If  the  day  were  but  one ; 
If  what  we  remember  and  what  we  forget 

Went  out  with  the  sun  ; 
We  should  be  from  our  clamorous  selves  set  free, 

To  work  or  to  pray, 
And  to  be  what  the  Father  would  have  us  be, 

If  we  had  but  a  day. 


1 8  GATHER    UP    THE  FRAGMENTS. 

IV. 

"GATHER  UP  THE  FRAGMENTS." 
JOHN  vi.  12. 

DEAR  Shepherd,  who  of  old  the  listeners  led 
Among  the  Galilean  hills  afar, 
Who,  when  the  even  was  come,  the  fainting  fed, 
While  all  the  west  with  sunset  hues  flushed  red, 

Grew  dark,  then  brightened  'neath  the  evening  star  ; 
My  soul,  a  listener  through  the  fading  light, 
Yet  hears  thy  voice,  borne  to  me  from  the  height. 

The  voice  they  heard,  who,  Hasting,  homeward  pressed, 
Thoughtless,    perhaps,  though    strengthened   by  thy 
hand, 

Of  greater  feasts  where  they  had  been  thy  guests, 

Of  living  bread  thy  lips  for  them  had  blessed, 
Of  truths  we  all  are  slow  to  understand, 

Till,  fainting  and  athirst,  and  bowed  with  pain, 

We  turn  to  seek  the  Master's  face  again. 


GATHER    UP    THE  FRAGMENTS.  19 

"Gather  the  fragments  up  ! "     O  soul  of  mine, 

It  matters  not  that  in  no  Judean  land 
Thy  ways  were  cast,  yet  have  thy  bread  and  wine 

Come  ever  surely  from  the  Master's  hand  ; 

And  even  for  thee  were  spoken  this  command, 
To  gather  up — for  him — the  broken  bread, 
That  from  thy  hand  his  hungry  might  be  fed. 

Troubled  I  hear,  and,  blending  with  thy  tone, 
I  catch  the  voices  of  the  multitude, 

Who  struggle  each  with  each,  or  faint  alone, 
Or,  cursing,  cry  for  water  and  for  food, 
Or  question,   "  Who  shall  show  us  any  good  ?  " 

The  aged  moan  ;  the  child-hands  are  outspread 

For  the  lost  fragments  of  my  daily  bread. 

Backward  I  look,  beside  youth's  laughing  stream, 
Over  the  meadows  bathed  by  hope  in  light ; 

Through  the  green  pastures,  brightened  by  love's  dream, 
And  to  the  valleys,  wrapped  in  sorrow's  night ; 
Or  on  the  mountain  summits  cold  and  white, 

Seeking  for  fragments  of  a  broken  life 

F«r  these,  now  fainting  in  the  place  of  strife. 


20  GATHER    UP    THE  FRAGMENTS. 

But,  Lord,  the  stream  of  youth  ran  to  the  sea, 
And  left  no  blossoms  growing  by  its  side; 

And  I  have  seen  the  hope-light  fade  and  flee 

From  the  green  pastures  where  my  loves  have  died, 
And  where  my  sorrows  hide;  but  tears  abide 

And  blood-marks  trace  the  track  o'er  mountain  sod 

By  which  my  tired  soul  sought  to  climb  to  God. 

Yet,  searching  vainly  for  the  things  that  bless, 
Some  little  drops  of  gratitude  and  prayer 

Just  keep  my  o'erturned  cup  from  emptiness  ; 
Some  memories  of  blessings  strange  and  rare, 
Too  sacred  to  be  lost,  too  sad  to  share, 
Yet  hold  my  heart  back  from  a  dull  despair  ; 

And  I  can  always  find,  for  Christ's  dear  shrine, 

"Fragments  from  other  lives  dropped  into  mine. 

Tis  not  enough,  O  Lord  !  I  still  would  seek 
The  remnants  of  the  strength  in  struggle  lost, 

The  ruined  fragments  of  the  purpose  weak, 

The  wrecks  of  hope  and  love  by  shadows  crossed, 
The  shattered  faith  upon  life's  billows  tossed  ; 


GATHER    UP    THE   FRAGMENTS.  21 

And  these,  though  emblems  of  my  life's  defeat, 
I  fain  would  bring,  O  Shepherd,  to  thy  feet ! 

0  Hand,  that  never  breaks  the  bruised  reed  ! 
O  Voice,  that  held  the  waves  in  its  control ! 

Speak  peace,  and  let  the  fettered  life  be  freed  ; 

Pass  grandly  o'er  the  tossings  of  my  soul  ; 

Bind  up  my  fragments  to  a  perfect  whole. 
So,  going  forth,  great  in  thy  tenderness, 

1  may  grow  strong  to  cheer,  and  help,  and  bless. 


22  TO  A    FRIEND   ON   THE  NILE. 


V. 
TO  A  FRIEND    "ON  THE  NILE." 

HOW,  in  the  silence  strange  and  sweet 
That  falls  on  the  Egyptian  night, 
The  voices  of  the  years  repeat 

Tales  of  this  monarch  river's  might, 
Whose  great  heart,  throbbing  at  our  feet, 
Goes  on  with  ceaseless  swell  and  beat ; 


Goes  on  and  on,  while  countless  hearts 
Of  countless  nations  all  are  stilled  ; 

While  countless  years,  that  bore  their  part 
In  ages  that  were  glory-filled, 

Grew  and  declined  beneath  its  smile, 

And  sleep  in  dust  along  the  Nile. 


TO  A    FRIEND   ON   THE  NILE. 

O  friend  upon  the  Nile  with  me, 
Watching  the  tossings  of  the  palms, 

Tell  me  if  e'er  our  days  can  be 
Fuller  of  blessings  and  of  calms, 
Our  music  nearer  like  the  psalms  ? 

Tell  me  if  'neath  the  heavenly  palms, 
Beside  a  river  "  crystal  clear," 

We  shall  not  know  e'en  deeper  calms 
And  softer  psalms  than  we  do  here, 

And,  drifting  'neath  God's  smile  the  while. 

Be  happier  there  than  on  the  Nile  ? 


23 


24  FORGIVEN. 


VI. 
FORGIVEN. 

ISAIAH    XLIII.    25. 

NOT  on  my  forehead  to  lighten 
The  fiery  finger  of  pain  ; 
Not  for  a  moment  to  slighten 

The  bonds  of  my  many-linked  chain ; 
Not  to  be  freed  from  the  scourging, 

Though  faint  when  the  sinkings  begin  ; 
But  save  me,  dear  Lord,  from  the  surging 
Of  the  terrible  sea  of  my  sin. 

Its  mad  waters  drown  my  lamenting, 
Its  black  billows  mockingly  roll 

In  scorn  of  my  fruitless  repenting, 
In  scorn  at  the  fear  of  my  soul. 


FORGIVEi\T.  2 

It  seemed  such  a  calm  sea  of  pleasure  ; 

Its  voice  was  as  soft  as  a  song, 
Till  I  trusted  my  life  and  my  treasure, 

And  found  it  remorseless  and  strong. 

I  sink  in  a  grief  unavailing, 

I  reach  through  the  dark  for  thy  hand, 
It  guides — while  my  last  strength  is  failing — 

To  a  Rock  in  the  treacherous  sand  ; 
All  the  waters  go  over  me,  leaving 

Me  ruined  and  wrecked  at  thv  feet  : 
Let  me  lie  there  and  die  there,  believing 

Forgiveness  divine  and  complete. 

Ah,  me  !  am  I  drowning  and  dreaming, 

Like  the  stricken  who  die  while  they  dream 
Of  a  past  and  a  future,  both  beaming 

With  fever's  delirious  gleam  ? 
Nay,  nay  ;  it  is  real,  I  am  going, 

Unharmed  by  my  pitiful  loss, 
Where  the  past  and  the  future  are  glowing 

Alike  in  the  light  of  the  cross. 


26  FORGIVEN. 

And  my  soul  is  singing  a  paean 

Louder  than  chant  of  the  sea, 
For  the  King  of  the  waves  Galilean 

Has  stilled  wilder  waters  for  me  ; 
And  the  blackness  is  changing  to  brightness, 

While  red  waves  of  pardon  o'erflow  ; 
My  crimson  is  wool  in  its  whiteness, 

My  scarlet  is  purer  than  snow. 


PRAISE.  27 

VII. 
PRAISE. 

HOW  can  I  praise  thee  rightly,  who  have  been 
So  slow  of  heart,  so  dull  to  learn  thy  ways? 
My  soul  is  ready  with  its  glad  Amen 
When  others  sing,  and  tries  their  songs  again  ; 
But  all  my  singing  does  not  sound  like  praise. 

I  thought,  dear  Lord,  that  e'en  my  muffled  heart 
Might  from  its  stifling  silence  break  forth  free, 

And  'mong  thy  cheerful  singers  find  a  part, 
And  add  its  might  to  all  earth's  minstrelsy ; 
But  'tis  not  thus  I  find  it  servcth  thee. 

Nay,  I  must  e'en  be  still,  my  life  at  flood 
May  overflow,  but  not  in  speech  or  song. 

One  may  give  love — as  Jesus  gave  his  blood, 

Each  drop  a  power  to  lift  the  world  from  wrong  ; 
And  praise  is  sweet,  but  love  and  work  are  strong. 


\  WHY? 

VIII. 
WHY? 

NOT  because  my  palsied  hand  has  gathered 
Strength  to  take  the  idle  weapons  up ; 
Not  because  my  lips  have  found  the  sweetness 
Mingled  with  the  bitter  of  my  cup ; 

Not  because  the  way  in  which  I  faltered 
Has  grown  smoother,  or  my  burden  less  ; 

Or  because  I  see,  thro'  Fate's  dark  masking, 
Where  my  smiters  have  been  meant  to  bless ; 

Not  because  I  see,  in  smoldering  ashes, 
Fires  of  hope  and  faith  once  more  alight ; 

Or  because  my  waiting  has  been  resting, 
Do  I  rise  and  -gird  me  for  the  fight. 

Gird  me,  though  from  wounds  still  faint  and  bleeding; 

Walk  erect,  though  weak,  athirst,  and  faint  ; 
And  press  onward  to  the  end,  unheeding 

If  my  road  be  cheered  by  wayside  saint. 


WHY?  29 

'Tis  enough  that,  lying  in  the  shadows, 
Far  away  from  saintly  shrine  or  cross, 

I  have  heard  a  voice  of  human  music, 
Seen  a  smile  that  shamed  defeat  and  loss; 

Caught  a  glance  from  an  illumined  spirit, 
Throwing  out,  where  life's  high  billows  roll, 

Light-house  gleams  of  peace,  which  they  inherit 
Who  are  strong  in  an  un vanquished  soul. 

And  because  I  see  that  sweet  light  falling 

Over  wilder  seas  than  I  have  tried, 
Warning  other  barks  in  deeps  appalling, 

Shining  on  to  cheer,  to  help,  to  guide  ; 

And  because  /saw  it  when  /drifted, 

Wrecked  and  broken,  on  the  shifting  sand, 

Have  I  lighted  my  small  lamp,  and  lifted 
Up  my  life  once  more  in  trembling  hand. 

It  may  be  the  gleam  of  my  small  taper 

Shall  o'ershine  some  rough  or  shadowed  way  ; 

So  I  clasp  my  weapons,  take  my  burdens, 
And  press  forward  to  the  eternal  day. 


PICTURE. 


IX. 

A  PICTURE. 

ENTERED   INTO    REST,    SEPT.    18,  1876,    REV.    BISHOP    E.  S.  JANES. 

ONLY  a  picture  of  an  aged  face, 
Wrinkled  and  seamed  by  years  of  thought  and 

care  ; 

Wearing  serene  its  crown  of  silver  hair, 
Above  a  rugged  brow  that  bears  the  trace 

Of  earnest  thoughts  and  softening  touch  of  prayer. 

As  falls  the  mist  upon  the  mountain  side, 
Hiding  the  harsher  tints  of  light  and  shade, 
Which  showed  where  storm  and  wintry  tempest 
played, 

So  falls  the  vail  of  chastened  thought,  to  hide 
The  rougher  lines  by  life's  stern  conflicts  made. 


A    PICTURE.  31 

And  have  we  only  this  ?  the  pictured  smile, 
The  calm  eyes  that  have  wept  their  latest  tears, 
And  lost  the  earnest  fire  of  early  years, 

Gaining  this  patient  look  of  peace  the  while? 
A  look  that  silences  our  murmuring  fears. 

Oh,  no  ;  these  are  not  all  !  there  was  too  much 
Of  loving  kindness  toward  his  fellow-men, 
Of  thoughtful  care  for  every  brother's  pain, 

Of  noble  things  the  Spoiler  cannot  touch, 
Or  hearts  forget,  or  even  the  grave  retain. 

And  deathless  are  each  kindly  word  or  deed, 
The  earnest  purpose  and  the  upright  life, 
The  prayerful  sowing  of  the  precious  seed, 
The  faithful  word  that  bade  the  right  God-speed, 
The  helping  hand  held  out  in  Freedom's  strife. 

So,  though  the  kindly  voice  and  step  are  still, 
And  though  we  miss  the  smile  his  calm  face  wore, 
And  grieve  because  we  see  him  here  no  more, 

We  know  life  is  not  over,  that  he  will 
Work  for  the  Master — even  as  before. 


32  A  PICTURE. 

That  he  will  work — and  wait — till  those  who  grieve, 
Though    their   steps   falter,  and    their  eyes   grow 

dim, 

Shall,  soon  or  late,  his  own  deep  peace  receive, 
And,  one  by  one,  their  heavy  burdens  leave, 
And  climb  the  shining  way  that  leads  to  him. 


A  PICTURE.  33 


X. 

A   PICTURE. 

ENTERED     INTO    REST,    AUGUST    13,      1876,    CHARLOTTE,    WIFE     OF     BISHOP 
JANES. 

JUST  as  sweetly  as  fades  the  light 
After  the  sun  is  gone, 
Just  as  gently  as  through  the  night 

The  steady  stars  shine  on, 
Just  as  softly  as  Spring  leaves  come, 
Or  snow-flakes  whiten  the  sod, 
Passed  she  out  from  an  earthly  home 
Into  the  home  of  God. 

Never  the  rays  of  moon  or  sun 

Fell  on  her  face  that  day, 
And  only  a  heavenly  artist's  hand, 

Could  have  left  such  li.yht  on  clay. 


34 


A   PICTURE. 

We  knew  that  angel  hands  had  wrought, 
Each  day,  at  the  soul  within, 

With  loving  touches  of  prayer  and  thought 
Hiding  each  trace  of  sin; 

Sweeping  the  heavy  shade  of  pain 

Over  the  smile  of  her  face  ; 
And  leaving  the  gleam  of  a  Father's  love, 

And  the  light  of  the  cross  in  its  place. 
And  so  it  was — their  sweet  work  done, 

When  the  Master  bade  them  cease, 
There  was  left  for  our  eyes  to  gaze  upon, 

This  beautiful  picture  of  peace. 


DEAD.  35 


XI. 
DEAD. 

I  BURIED  a  sorrow  out  of  sight  ; 
It  is  dead  !   I  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 
I  shrouded  it  well  in  mantle  of  white  ; 
I  made  it  a  grave  when  the  stars  shone  bright  ; 
I  pressed  the  sod  till  it  covered  it  quite, 
And  said,  It  is  verily  dead  ! 
It  is  dead  !  I  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 

I  answered  the  asking  of  friendly  eyes  ; 

It  is  dead  !   I  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 
I  calmed  my  weeping  ;   I  chained  my  sighs  ; 
My  days  ran  laughter  and  low  replies  ; 
I  gave  back  smiling  for  dumb  surprise, 

And  said,  It  is  verily  dead  ! 

It  is  dead  !  I  said  :  it  is  dead  ! 


DEAD. 

I  said  it  so  often  the  wild  waves  heard ; 

It  is  dead  !  they  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 
The  murmuring  pines  in  the  south  wind  stirred ; 
The  rush  of  waters,  the  song  of  bird, 
All  echoed  together  the  same  low  word, 

It  is  dead  !  they  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 

It  is  dead  !  it  is  verily  dead  ! 

No  growing  grasses  the  grave  revealed  ; 

The  sorrow  is  dead  !   I  said. 
No  deep  scar  showed  where  a  hurt  had  healed  ; 
But  a  record  was  written,  a  book  was  sealed, 
And  a  work  was  wrought  in  the  world's  wide  field, 

While  ever  and  ever  I  said, 

It  is  dead  !  it  is  verily  dead  ! 

Ah,  well  for  the  world  and  the  world's  works'  sake ! 

It  is  dead  !   I  said  ;  it  is  dead  ! 
But  oh,  for  my  heart !  if  it  once  could  wake, 
Its  pitiful  bondage  of  silence  break, 
And  find  a  voice  for  its  dull,  dumb  ache  ! 

Nay,  nay  ;  it  is  dead  !   I -said  ; 

It  is  dead  !   it  is  verilv  dead  ! 


IF    THY  RIGHT  HAND   OFFEND    THEE. 


37 


XII. 
"IF  THY  RIGHT  HAND  OFFEND  THEE." 

NAY,  not  my  right  hand  ? 
It  is  scarred  with  its  toil  ;  it  hath  never  known 

rest ; 

In  the  struggle  of  life  it  hath  wrought  with  the  best  ; 
It  hath  smitten  the  foes  that  assaulted  my  breast  ; 
It  hath  fought  in  my  battles,  fulfilled  my  command — 
Thou  wilt  spare  my  right  hand  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  not  so  fast  ! 

It  is  strong — it  hath  striven  ;  but  aye  for  the  right  ? 
Can  it  hold  its  scars  proudly  to-day  in  my  sight  ? 
Hath  it  guarded  thy  bosom  from  darkness  or  light? 
At  my  feet  even  now  have  its  weapons  been  cast  ? 

Can  I  trust  it  at  last  ?  " 


38      IF    THY  RIGHT  HAND   OFFEND    THEE. 

"Ah  !    it  quails  at  thy  word  ; 
It  hath  scattered  such  seed  as  were  better  unsown  ; 
It  hath  garnered  in  fields  that  were  never  its  own  ; 
It  hath  left  its  own  garden  with  weeds  overgrown  ; 
Yet  it  trembles  and  fears  at  the  gleam  of  the  sword. 

Thou  wilt  pity  it,  Lord  ?  " 

"  And  did  I  not  heed 

Thy  pleading,  and  strengthen  and  cleanse  and  prepare 
For  work  in  my  vineyard,  my  harvests  to  share? 
Behold  what 'rebellion  hath  answered  my  care  ! 
Thy  garners  are  empty,  thou'rt  crippled  indeed  ; 

And  yet  dost  thou  plead  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Lord,  I  am  still  ! 

See  !  the  hand  is  in  thine  !     If  thou  lovest  me  so, 
There  is  mercy  in  smiting  that  lays  me  so  low, 
There  are  pardon  and  healing  to  follow  the  blow  ; 
Whole  or  maimed,  weak  or  strong,  if  only  thy  will 

Be  wrought,  I  am  still  !  " 


TOIL  AND  REST 


39 


XIII. 
TOIL  AND  REST. 

FROM  my  window  I  can  sec  the  reapers 
Bringing  home  their  sheaves  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Drowsy  bees  are  humming  'mid  the  creepers, 
Over  sweetness  gained  and  labor  done. 

Peasant  women  from  the  field  are  bringing 

Little  rosy  children,  tired  of  play, 
Who,  within  the  sound  of  mother's  singing, 

Slept  or  sported  in  the  grass  all  day. 

11  Blest  the  toil  that  sweetens  rest  and  pleasure/'' 
Sighs  the  evening  wind  through  closing  flowers 

"Blest  each  humble  hand  that  wrested  treasure 
From  the  golden  storehouse  of  the  hours." 

Throbs  the  earth  with  pulse  of  strong  endeavor; 

I  alone,  behind  my  prison  bars, 
Hold  my  hands  up  empty,  and  can  never 

Welcome  the  calm  coming  of  the  stars. 


40  TOIL  AND   REST. 

I  am  weary,  too  ;  yet  restful  even 

On  no  harvest-work  of  mine  has  smiled  : 

And  no  song  of  mine  has  sweetness  given 
Even  to  the  slumbers  of  a  child. 

I  have  lost  the  Hand  the  whole  world  guiding 
To  the  fields  where  humble  souls  rejoice, 

And  earth's  harmonies  are  changed  to  chiding. 
Wind  and  leaf  and  wave,  with  one  low  voice, 

Sadly  talk  of  life  that  yields  no  sweetness, 
Waking  mournful  echo  in  my  breast, 

Till  I,  quickened,  yearn  for  the  completeness 
Of  a  toil  that  earns  the  evening's  rest ; 

Till  I  hasten  to  my  own  late  sowing, 
In  the  fields  forever  stretching  wide, 

Where,  of  old,  one  at  the  last  hour  going, 

Found  his  penny  at  the  eventide. 
HOMBURG,  GERMANY,  July  i8th. 


TWO  AND  ONE.  4  i 


XIV. 
TWO  AND  ONE. 

TWO  mountain  streamlets  seeking 
Lone  ways  to  the  same  sea  ; 
Two  tones  that  need  but  echoes 

To  make  them  harmony ; 
Two  clouds  at  sunset  ranging 

The  western  fields  of  light, 
One  glowing  gold,  one  changing 

Its  purple  into  white  ; 
Two  pilgrims  walking  lonely, 

Rough  ways  to  the  same  shrine  ; 
Two  right  hands  lifted  upward 

For  cups  of  life's  red  wine. 

Two  small  streams  make  together 

A  river  swift  and  strong  ; 
Two  voices  make  new  music, 

If  blended  in  one  song  ; 


42 


TWO  AND  ONE. 

And  in  the  western  heaven 

Strange,  wondrous  tints  unfold, 
When  cloud  in  white  and  purple 

Meets  cloud  in  crimson  and  gold  ; 
And  a  smoother  road  leads  upward 

Than  lonely  saint  e'er  knew, 
Through  fragrant  lands,  where  one  strong  hand 

Must  gather  the  grapes  for  two. 

So  music  is  wedded  to  music, 

And  stream  and  stream  are  one, 
And  cloud  is  the  bride  of  cloudlet 

In  the  palace  of  the  sun  ; 
And  a  life  that  is  weak  and  wanting 

Rounds  to  a  perfect  whole, 
When  spirit  is  one  with  spirit, 

And  soul  is  wedded  to  soul. 


AMONG   THE   SAINTS.  43 


XV. 
AMONG  THE  SAINTS. 

ON    THE    CATHEDRAL    AT    MILAN. 

THERE'S  a  winding  stairway  in  the  tower, 
Leading  upward  ever  high  and  higher, 
From  the  silence  of  the  old  cathedral  ; 
From  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  columns, 
Standing  strong  in  still  and  solemn  grayness, 
'Neath  the  fretted  roofs  uplifted  arches  ; 
From  the  windows,  where  the  common  sunlight, 
Through  the  glowing  robes  of  saints  transmitted, 
Grows  a  golden  glory,  flecked  with  rubies  ; 
From  the  crypt,  where  silver  lamps'  faint  flicker 
On  the  crystal  coffins  and  the  jewels 
Makes  them  smile  with  cold,  unmeaning  glitter, 
Mocking  ghastly  dust  they  cannot  cover; 
From  the  lifted  cross  and  gorgeous  altar ; 


44 


AMONG    THE    SAINTS. 

From  the  hurried  priest's  monotonous  droning, 
And  the  echo  of  the  faint  responses  ; 
From  the  kneelers,  idling  at  their  praying, 
Swiftly  slipping  beads  through  careless  fingers  ; 
From  the  footfall  of  the  curious  strangers, 
And  the  truer  pleading  of  the  beggars — 
Halt  and  maimed,  for  whom  is  no  Bethesda  ; 
Leprous  limbed,  for  whom  there  flows  no  Jordan  ; 
Blind,  who,  waiting  ever  by  the  wayside, 
Never  hear  the  step  of  heavenly  Healer  ; 
From  the  organ's  grand,  majestic  hymning, 
And  the  bell  that,  in  its  mighty  sweetness, 
Gives  the  soul  of  the  cathedral  utterance, 
Like  a  great  heart's  high, tumultuous  throbbing, 
Finding  echo  in  the  hidden  places. 
—  Mounting  slow  this  stairway  in  the  tower, 
All  the  mingled  sounds  are  lost  in  silence. 
Lost  the  dimness,  gold  and  ruby  tinted, 
In  a  canopy  of  white  and  turquoise, 
God's  o'ershadowing  clouds  and  arch  of  azure. 
Now  the  giant  temple  is  below  us  ; 
Far  below  us  the  majestic  city; 


AMONG    THE    SAINTS.  45 

Quivering  like  a  restless  human  creature, 
Pulsing  with  the  pain  of  human  heart-aches; 
So  alive  with  hopes  of  myriad  mortals, 
With  the  floods  of  love,  of  death,  of  passion 
Finding  veins  in  every  street  and  by-way — 
Veins  that  leave  their  dead  at  this  wide  portal 
When  the  floods  are  gone  and  tides  are  ebbing. 

This  great  temple  seems  almost  immortal, 
Even  as  if  the  dead  hands  that  upreared  it, 
With  unseen  and  ever  silent  touches, 
Swept  away  the  dust  of  its  decaying  ; 
Till  it  stands  so  sacred  in  its  whiteness, 
So  unsullied  in  its  marble  vesture, 
That,  mcthinks,  Jerusalem  the  Golden, 
Coming  down  from  God  with  fair  adorning, 
If  it  had  but  need  of  one  fair  temple 
For  the  kings  to  bring  their  glory  into, 
Then,     mcthinks,     the     Bride     let     down     fiom 

heaven, 

With  the  glory  of  the  Lord  upon  her, 
Of  her  golden  streets  and  walls  of  jasper, 


4 6  AMONG    THE   SAINTS. 

Of  her  pearly  gates  swung  wide  forever, 
Of  her  light,  beyond  the  sun's  clear  shining, 
Would  not  find  this  house  of  God  unworthy. 

Here  have  human  faith,  and  love,  and  longing 
Crystallized  in  forms  of  grace  and  beauty, 
Till  each  slender  shaft,  and  shrine,  and  column 
Is  a  tear,  or  prayer,  or  hope,  embodied  ; 
Voices  something  that  were  else  unspoken. 
Every  statue  of  the  white  three  thousand, 
Waiting,  silent,  through  the  drifting  ages, 
While  the  Italian  sod  takes  to  her  bosom, 
One  by  one,  the  countless  generations 
Who  have  lifted  up  their  eyes  in  dying 
To  the  marble  faces  shining  on  them, 
Has  its  voice  of  blessing  or  of  comfort. 
Glorious  company  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
In  their  hands  the  palms  of  triumph  bearing, 
On  their  brows  the  peace  of  those  who  conquered. 
Calm,  sweet  souls,  who  are  to-day's  possession, 
Whose  good  deeds,  to  every  clime  belonging, 
Bridge,  with  blessing  and  with  inspiration, 


AMONG    THE   SAINTS.  47 

All  the  seas  of  years  that  swell  between  us. 

No  more  seem  they  marble  statues  only, 

Keeping  guard  above  the  old  cathedral  ; 

But  each  niche  reveals  a  face  transfigured 

With  the  peace  of  Him  "  who  overcometh." 

All  the  patient  look  of  calm  endurance, 

All  the  upraised,  tearful  glance  of  longing, 

Over-swept  by  some  high  hope  of  service 

To  be  wrought  for  those  who  still  must  struggle. 

These  are  dwellers  in  the  higher  temple  ; 

Human  hearts  have  shrined  their  life  and  story, 

Human  lives  have  seen  their  hidden  glory, 

By  their  helping  grown  to  greater  meetness 

For  that  chiefest  joy,  the  sure  indwelling 

Of  the  love  that  makes  our  life's  completeness. 

Far  below  us  lies  the  living  city  ; 
Calm  before  us  spreads  the  wide  Campagna  ; 
All  the  hillsides  smile  with  countless  vineyards ; 
All  the  slopes  show  silvery  shine  of  olives; 
And,  beyond,  rise  up  the  glorious  mountains, 
The  eternal  mountains  of  the  Alpland. 


4 8  AMONG    THE    SAINTS. 

Far  to  southward  sleeps  the  land  of  blossoms, 
Dreams  the  Italy,  that  more  than  ever 
Should  arise  and  don  her  beauteous  garments  ; 
Should  lift  up  her  voice  in  purer  praising, 
That  no  longer  down  her  mountain  passes 
Or  'cross  seas,  her  foes  shall  come  upon  her  ; 
That  the  dust  is  swept  from  off  her  altars  ; 
That  the  iron  chains  of  superstition 
Bind  no  more  the  spirits  of  her  people  ; 
That  her  worshiping  may  yet  be  worthy 
Of  her  temples  and  the  God  above  them. 


ENDURANCE.  49 


XVI. 
ENDURANCE. 

FOR  deeps  of  human  suffering  or  joy  no  measure 
Into  our  hands  is  given  ; 

We  cannot  know  our  brother's  loss  or  treasure, 
His  anguish  or  his  heaven. 

Ofttimes  the  arrowy  sharpness  of  a  sorrow, 
Piercing  life's  common  calm, 

Smites  hidden  rocks  of  comfort,  which  to-morrow 
O'erflow  with  healing  balm. 

Ofttimes  we  calmest  find  grief's  turbid  river 

Who  trembled  on  its  brink  ; 
And  oft  the  cup  at  which  our  blanched  lips  quiver 

Holds  wine  of  hope  to  drink. 
3 


ENDURANCE. 


'Neath  burdens  that  we  staggered  in  the  taking 
We  walk  erect  at  length  ; 

And  bitter  blows  that  bow  us  e'en  to  breaking 
Reveal  our  secret  strength. 


THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN. 

XVII. 
THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN. 


BACK  to  thy  feet,  O  my  Father ! 
Wearied  and  stricken  and  sore, 
Dragging  a  heavier  burden 

Than  ever  a  prodigal  bore  ; 
Coming  with  worn  feet  that  falter, 

Hands  that  are  crimsoned  with  stain, 
And  a  heart  that  can  lay  on  thine  altar 
Only  its  sin  and  its  pain. 


ii. 


I  changed  the  white  robes  of  thy  favor 
For  garments  tattered  and  soiled  ; 

The  fields  where  thou  badest  me  labor 
The  weeds  and  the  foxes  have  spoiled. 


52  THE  PRODIGALS  RETURN. 

I  turned  from  the  fruits  of  thy  vineyard, 
To  feed  on  the  husks  with  the  swine, 

And  left  the  pure  springs  of  thy  mercy 
For  cups  of  the  rioter's  wine. 


in. 

And  now  to  thy  feet  I  am  coming, 

Saddened,  ashamed,  and  defiled, 
And  I  ask  for  the  bread  of  a  servant — 

Not  worthy  the  name  of  a  child. 
I  wait,  in  the  dust,  for  thy  greeting  ; 

If  it  come  with  the  stroke  of  thy  rod, 
Spare  it  not,  if  it  hasten  the  meeting 

Of  a  penitent  heart  and  its  God. 


O  stained  hands  !  cleansed  by  thy  grasping ! 

O  bleeding  feet !  healed  in  thy  ways  ! 
Leave  thy  sins,  and  press  onward,  close-clasp 
ing 

The  cross  of  my  shame  and  thy  praise. 


THE   PRODIGALS  RETURX.  53 

Till  the  tearful  eyes,  healed  of  their  blindness, 
Shall  see,  from  the  lowliest  place, 

The  wonderful  mercy  and  kindness 
That  shines  in  thy  pardoning  face. 


54    MARY  BEARING  THE  DOVES  TO  SACRIFICE. 


XVIII. 
MARY  BEARING  THE  DOVES  TO  SACRIFICE. 

A    PICTURE    ON    THE    WALL. 

MY  lifted  eyes  behold  a  fair  child's  face, 
Under  a  vail  of  woman's  holiest  thought, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  mystery  of  grace 

And  mystery  of  mercy  God  hath  wrought. 

Down  through  the  dim  old  Temple  moving  slow, 
Her  drooping  lids  scarce  lifted  from  the  ground, 

As  if  she  dimly  heard  the  distant  flow 

Of  far-off  seas  of  grief  she  could  not  sound. 

« 

I  think  the  angels  scarce  could  count  it  sin, 
If,  underneath  the  vail  that  hid  her  eyes, 
They,  seeing  all  things,  saw  the  soul  within 
Knew  more  of  mother-love  than  sacrifice. 


MARY  BEARING  THE  DOVES  TO  SACRIFICE.    55 

She  walks  erect,  like  one  all  undefiled  ; 

Back  from  her  throat  the  loose  robe  falls  apart, 
And,  e'en  as  she  would  clasp  her  royal  child, 

She  holds  the  dovelets  to  her  mother-heart. 


No  white  wing  trembles  'neath  her  pitying  palm  ; 

No  feather  flutters  in  this  last  warm  nest  ; 
And  so  she  bears  them  on,  while  solemn  psalm 

Drowns  the  prophetic  whisper  in  her  breast. 


Sweet  Hebrew  Mother  !  many  a  woman  shares 
Thy  crucifixion  of  her  hopes  and  loves  ; 

And  in  her  arms  to  death  unshrinking  bears 
Her  precious  things,  as  thou  thy  turtle-doves. 


But  often,  ere  upon  the  marble  floor 
Has  died  the  echo  of  the  parting  feet, 

Our  gifts  prove  worthless ;  thine  is  evermore, 
The  gift  of  gifts,  transcendent  and  complete. 


5  6    MARY  BEARING  THE  DOVES  TO  SACRIFICE. 

We  have  our  little  treasures,  each  our  own, 
And,  one  by  one,  we  see  them  sacrificed. 

Thou,   " blessed  among  women!"  thou,  alone, 
Couldst  give  to  God— from  thine  own  arms- 
the  Christ. 


ALONE.  57 


XIX. 
ALONE. 

AFRAID  to  dwell  alone,  O  coward  heart ! 
When  he,  whose  hand  hath  set  thee  thus  apart, 
Built  up  thy  hedges,  closed  thine  open  gate, 
Knows  what  it  is  to  stand  outside,  and  wait  ? 

Oh  !  think  how  oft — his  locks  with  night  dews  wet- 
He  trod  the  shadowy  gloom  of  Olivet  ; 
How  vainly  sought  one  loving  soul,  to  share 
Gethsemane's  sad  hour  of  midnight  prayer. 

How  human  hearts  gave  back,  for  love,  their  hate  ; 
Till,  smitten,  scorned,  and  mocked,  and  desolate, 
His  aching  heart  broke  with  this  dying  moan  : 
4  -  .My  God  !  my  God  !  why  am  I  left  alone  ?  " 

Before  his  cross,  O  tired  soul  !   be  still  ; 
Accept  the  path  he  shows  thee  ;  let  his  will 
3* 


58  ALONE. 

Be  guide  and  comfort ;  so,  however  drear 
The  way  may  seem  to  thee,  he  will  be  near ! 

Hearing  his  voice,  what  other  canst  thou  need  ? 
Seeing  his  smile,  thy  days  are  fair  indeed. 
Divinest  fellowship  may  be  thine  own — - 
Say,  soul,  art  still  afraid  to  be  alone  ? 


LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS.  59 

XX. 

LIGHT  IN  DARKNESS. 

THE  fire  burns  low,  the  shadows  gleam  and  fade, 
And  darkness  lingers  where  the  sunset  played  ; 
A  hand  of  silence  on  my  lips  is  laid — 
I  cannot  find  the  light  ! 

One  eager  longing  fills  my  clouded  breast  ; 
I  wait  the  coming  of  a  heavenly  guest  : 
Thou,  who  of  old  in  Bethany  didst  rest, 
Tarry  with  me  to-night  ! 

With  goodly  fare  my  table  is  not  spread  ; 
Hot  tears  have  mingled  with  my  wine  and  bread  ; 
I  cannot  pour  upon  thy  blessed  head 
The  spikenard  rare  and  sweet. 

Hut  if  my  few  poor  gifts  thou  condescend 
To  take,  thy  taking  worthiness  will  lend, 
And  I  will  pour  my  soul  out,  O  my  Friend  ! 
Like  Mary,  at  thy  feet  ! 


60  LIGPIT  IN  DARKNESS. 

My  soul,  consumed  by  sin's  corroding  rust  ; 
My  soul,  that  spurned  the  stars  and  loved  the  dust; 
My  soul,  that  longs  at  last  for  love  and  trust, 
Is  all  I  have  to  bring. 

I  strain  my  gaze  now  for  one  gleaming  star, 
I  sit  in  darkness  with  my  door  ajar, 
That  I  may  hear  thy  footsteps  from  afar, 
The  footsteps  of  my  King  ! 

And  I  do  hear,  though  clouds  thy  visage  hide  ; 
I  reach  my  hand  out  thro'  the  shadowy  tide 
Of  doubts  and  fears,  and  on  the  other  side 
Lo,  it  is  clasped  in  thine  ! 

I  shuddering  feel  the  nail-prints  in  the  palm ; 
But  oh  !   the  wound  drops  healing,  and  a  balm 
Of  tenderness,  that  blesses  with  a  calm 
Of  peace  and  Jove  divine. 


A   PRAYER.  6 1 


XXI. 

A  PRAYER. 

WEARIED  and  tired  and  worn, 
Loathing  what  is,  dreading  what  is  to  be, 
Shrinking  from  burdens  that  must  still  be  borne, 
Father,  I  come  to  thee  ! 

I  lay  my  burdens  down 

One  moment,  that  my  hands  thy  cross  may  take. 
When  shall  I  lift  them  up  to  take  the  crown 
Given  for  Christ's  dear  sake  ? 

I'm  wearied  with  the  heat, 

And  still  the  sands  grow  hotter  'neath  my  tread  ; 
Beside  no  cool  streams  walk  my  aching  feet, 
No  shade  is  o'er  my  head. 


()2  A    PRAYER. 

I  come  to  thee  for  rest, 

Bringing  thee  love  and  trust — both  weak  thro' 

pain  ; 

Oh  !  lift  me  till  I  lie  upon  thy  breast, 
Love  me  to  peace  again. 

And  lay  thy  precious  hand, 

In  softest  touches,  on  my  head  to-day, 
And  let  me  by  thine  own  strong  breath  be  fanned 
Through  all  the  desert  way. 

Then,  though  my  heart  be  sad, 

Though  I  am  weary,  and  the  way  seem  long, 
Thy  blessed  presence  here  shall  make  me  glad, 
In  thee  I  shall  be  strong. 


VENETIA   LIETH  DEAD.  63 


XXII. 
VENETIA  LIETH  DEAD. 

O  PURPLE  Adriatic  !  that  wore  upon  thy  breast 
The  splendor  of  the  Orient,  the  glory  of  the 

West  ! 
O   rare  and  royal  wooer  !  O  sea  !  whose  throbbing 

tide 

Enfolded   fair  Venetia,  and  won  her  for  thy  bride  ; 
Till,  robed  in  beauteous  garments,  with  white,  un- 

sandaled  feet, 
She  walked  upon   the  waters,  her  lord,  her  king  to 

meet. 
Soft,  soft  the  vow  and  sweet  the   kiss  with  which 

the  maiden  wed, 
But  softer  let  the  farewell  be.     Venetia  lieth  dead  ! 

Thy  waters,  Adriatic,  still  kiss  her  icy  feet  ; 

The  winds  still  bear  thy  love-song  in  music  low  and 

sweet ; 


64  VENETIA   L1ETH  DEAD. 

Still  kindly  bend  above  her  the  glowing  eastern  skies  ; 
But  the  tender  golden  glory  reflected  in  her  eyes, 
The  rainbow  hues  of  promise,    the  purple  of  her 

pride, 

Have  faded  to  the  dimness  that  marked  the  eventide. 
The  rose  tint  of  her  gladness,  through  all  the  warm 

air  shed, 
Has  paled  to  moonlight  whiteness.  Venetia  lieth  dead! 

Where   sped  the  bright-winged  gondola  along  the 

tideless  street, 

Whose  paths  could  never  echo  the  tread  of  human  feet, 
Still  all   day  long  the  boatmen  ply  upon  their  silent 

track  ; 
But  the   gorgeous  bird  of  paradise  is  changed   to 

raven  black  ; 
And  where  the  songs  of  merriment  fell   on   the  air 

of  yore, 
The  boatman's  muttered  curse  beats  time  to  music 

of  the  oar ; 

The  fluttering  silken  canopy  above  the  dreamer's  head 
Is  changed  to  pall-like  drapery.  Venetia  lieth  dead  ! 


VENEJ'IA   LIE  Til  DEAD.  65 

Her  shining  marble  palaces  show  dim,  time-black 
ened  walls  ; 

The  shadowy  ghosts  of  grander  days  haunt  her  de 
serted  halls  ; 

The  doves  that  came  from  eastern  lands  to  nestle 
in  her  breast 

Have  felt  a  chill  beneath  their  wings,  and  sought  a 
warmer  nest ; 

Her  Winged  Lion  croucheth  low  beneath  the  Aus 
trian's  hand  ; 

Her  banner  traileth  in  the  dust,  that  brightened  sea 
and  land  ; 

Her  faith  and  hope  in  sackcloth,  with  ashes  on  her 
head, 

And  dust  upon  her  altars.     Venetia  lieth  dead  ! 

So,   shorn  of  all  her  beauty,  and  robbed  of  all  her 

might, 
Fold  thy  soft   waves  about  her  and  shroud  her  out 

of  sight. 
Too  long  she  walked  in  freedom  to  bear  the  captive's 

pain,  [chain. 

Her  white  hands  held  a  scepter  too  long  to  wear  a 


66  VENETIA   LIETH  DEAD. 

So,  when  from  out  her  heaven  dropped  the  star  of 
Liberty, 

Queen  of  the  Adriatic,   Bride  of  the  Southern   Sea, 

What  marvel  that  she  languished,  that,  on  her  bil 
lowy  bed, 

Unheeding  all  thy  moaning,  Venetia  lieth  dead  ? 

O  silent  city  !  sleeping  beneath  Italia's  sun, 

With  thy  last  thoughts  of  freedom  departing  one  by 

one, 
Like  specters  that,  unrecognized,  from  out  the  past 

arise, 
And  glide  in  swift  procession  over  thy  Bridge  of 

Sighs  ; 
Over  the  weary  Bridge  of  Sighs,  that  erst  its  burden 

bore 
From  the  stately  palace   portal  e'en   to  the  prison 

door  ; 
The  prison  door,  behind  whose  bars,  with  the  waters 

for  her  bed, 
And  Italia's  sky  above  her,   Venetia  lieth  dead  ! 

VKNICE,  1865. 


VENETIA     WAKES  AGAIN. 


XXIII. 
VENETIA  WAKES  AGAIN. 

NOT  in   her  early  beauty,  not  in  her  robes  of 
pride, 

As  when  the  orange  blossoms  crowned  the  sea's  tran 
scendent  bride  ; 

But  clad  in  every  color  Italians  flag  unfurls, 

She  puts  aside  her   sackcloth,  and  gathers  up    her 
pearls. 

And  binds  them  on  her  brow  once  more,  and  counts 
them  as  the  tears 

From  eyes  that  watched  for  freedom  through  all  the 
weary  years  ; 

And  casting  from  her  fettered  limbs  the  Austrian's 
galling  chain, 

She  lifts  her  face  up  to  the  sun.     "  Venetia  wakes 
again  !  " 


68  VENETIA    WAKES  AGAIN. 

Again   upon  each   crowded  bridge  waits  an   exultant 

throng, 
Again  on  every  silent  street  rings   out  the  boatman's 

song, 
And  pennons  float  from  mast  and  tower  and  marble 

balcony, 
And  cheers  and  waving  banners   greet  the  army  of 

the  free. 
Not    with    the   tramp   of  hurrying  feet   or  mail-clad 

warriors'  tread,, 
Not  with   the  captives  at  their  heels  or  conquerors  at 

their  head, 

Not  with  the  canopy  of  gold  above  the  glittering  train, 
Or  gorgeous  pageantry  of  old  "Venetia  wakes  again  !  " 

But    radiant  with     the   dawning  of  future    life    and 

strength, 
The  dawning  of  the  perfect  day  she   shall  behold  at 

length  ; 
And  happy  hands  shower  flowers    down,  laden   with 

tears  and  prayers, 
On  every  gondola  that  slow  the  proud  procession  bears. 


VENETIA    WAKES  AGAIN. 


69 


The  angels  of  deliverance  are  welcomed  none  the  less 
That     'stead    of    royal    robes    they    wear    the    Gari- 

baldian  dress, 
And    bear   within   their   strong    right    hands  a  sword 

that  knows  no  stain, 
A  scepter,   at  whose  lightest  touch    "  Venetia    wakes 

again." 

O  woe  to  thee,  Italia  !  if,  sheltered  in  thy  breast, 

She  finds  not  there  her  truest  life,  as  well  as  truest  rest. 

And  woe  to  thee  !  if  bearing  now  thy  flag,  thy  shield, 
thy  name, 

Thou  lift  her  not  from  darkness,  and  redeem  her  not 
from  shame. 

Free  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea,  thy  children 
gathered  home, 

One  prouder  day  yet  waits  for  thee,  when  thy  banner 
floats  o'er  Rome. 

But  when  thy  song  of  triumph  gains  that  last  ex 
ultant  strain, 

Still  let  it  keep  this  glad  refrain,  "Venetia  wakes 
again  !  '' 

VENICE.  1866. 


70  TRUE  FREEDOM, 


XXIV. 
TRUE  FREEDOM. 


"  For  Freedom  is  not  secured  by  full  enjoyment  of  what  is  desired,  but  by 
controlling  the  desire." — Epictctus. 


OTRANGELY  on  our  hurried  human  living, 
^J     On  our  restless  strife  and  eager  scheming, 
On  our  stubborn  habit  of  resistance 
To  whatever  mocks  or  thwarts  our  wishes, 
Falls  the  wisdom  of  the  old-time  teacher. 

Strange — yet,  when  our  deepest  souls  make  answer, 
They  but  give  an  echo  to  the  lessons  ; 
And  we  know,  by  subtle  inward  teaching, 
Truths  the  outward  sense  denies  or  questions. 
Thus  we  know  that  he  alone  hath  riches 
Who  hath  proved  the  greatness  of  a  little ; 
He  alone  hath  store  of  heavenly  treasure 
Whom  God  loveth  as  a  cheerful  giver ; 


TRUE  FREEDOM.  71 

That  he  only  walks  in  truest  freedom 

Who  can  bear  his  chains  without  a  murmur  ; 

And  that  he  is  victor  over  trouble 

Who  hath  learned  the  blessedness  of  yielding, 

And  possesseth  his  own  soul  in  patience. 

So  it  is  ;  we  may  be  "more  than  conquerors  ;  " 
"More    than    conquerors"    through    One    who 

loved  us  ; 

One  whose  strength  is  in  our  weakness  perfect ; 
One  who  meets  our  emptiness  with  fullness  ; 
One  who  said,  "Who  saveth  life  shall  lose  it  ; 
He  who  giveth  findeth  life  eternal." 


72  THE  LAST  OF    THE   SUMMER. 

\ 

XXV. 
THE  LAST  OF  THE  SUMMER. 

I  SEE  them  again,  my  own  hill-lands, 
The  mountains  I  used  to  know 
When  my  shadows  were  falling  westward, 
And  my  days  were  all  aglow 
With  the  sun  of  long  ago. 

I  have  no  need  to  remember 
The  picture  of  each  old  place, 

For  the  touch  of  the  young  September 
On  Nature's  familiar  face 
Has  given  the  old-time  grace  ; 

The  grace  of  the  day  when  the  sunshine 
Creeps  softly  and  slow  toward  the  west  ; 

The  faint,  nameless  shade,  scarce  a  shadow, 
That  holds  a  dim  promise  of  rest, 
Which  marks  its  own  hour  as  the  best. 


THE  LAST   OF   THE   SUMMER.  73 

A  grace  which  the  dying  summer 
Threw,  like  a  mantle,  down 

On  mountain,  and  field,  and  woodland, 
Where,  living,  she  wore  her  crown — 
The  crown  in  the  dust  laid  down. 

It  hangs  o'er  the  hillside  forests 

In  many  a  misty  fold, 
And  the  life  is  gone  from  their  greenness, 

And  the  mountains  look  blighted  and  cold, 

Like  strong  men  suddenly  old. 

The  tender  green  of  the  grasses 
Is  changed  to  a  lifeless  gray  ; 

I  have  seen  the  velvet  cushions 
In  places  where  penitents  pray, 
That  looked  like  the  fields  to-day. 

And  the  whole  earth  seems  a  temple, 
Where,  notes  of  praise  between, 

An  undertone  of  sorrow 
Echoes  in  aisles  of  green, 
For  a  dead  and  discrowned  queen. 


74 


THE    LAST  OF    THE    SUMMER. 

And  the  gay  and  glorious  autumn 
Reluctant  comes  to  reign, 

As  if  she  shrank  from  startling 
With  light  and  joy  again 
This  vague,  unspoken  pain. 

But  a  crimson  banner,  flying 
From  one  lone  maple  tree, 

Gives  to  the  wind  a  promise 
Of  glory  that  will  be, 
When  the  summer  shade  shall  flee. 

The  woods  may  burn  with  color, 
And  the  sun  the  hill-tops  kiss ; 

From  all  their  royal  robing 
My  heart  a  charm  shall  miss, 
And  no  day  be  like  this. 

I  shall  open  mine  eyes  to  the  glory, 
I  shall  join  the  harvest  praise; 

But  I  cannot  carry  over 
Into  the  gayer  ways 
What  died  in  the  summer  days. 


THE  LORD   IS  MY  SHEPHERD.  75 


XXVI. 
THE  LORD  IS  MY  SHEPHERD. 

23D    PSALM,     FOR    A    CHILD. 

THE  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,"  and  I  am  his 
lamb, 

One  of  the  smallest  and  weakest  I  am  ; 
Yet  by  his  bounty  daily  I'm  fed, 
In  his  green  pastures  tenderly  led. 

Kind  is  my  Shepherd,  and  large  is  his  fold, 
Daily  he  welcomes  the  young  as  the  old  ; 
Tenderly  watching,  in  waking  and  sleep, 
Over  us  evermore  guard  doth  he  keep. 

Sometimes  the  way  where  he  leadeth  his  sheep 
Groweth  for  child-feet  dark  and  too  steep  ; 
Then  doth  he  lift  me  close  to  his  breast, 
Bearing  me  upward  to  places  of  rest. 


76  THE  LORD   IS  MY  SHEPHERD. 

He  hath  green  pastures  lying  afar, 
Needing  no  sunlight,  needing  no  star  ; 
There  from  his  presence  the  lambs  never  stray, 
Thither  he  leadeth  me  nearer  each  day. 

I  hear  of  a  valley  and  shadow  of  death  ; 

I  see  but  green  meadows  illumined  by  faith  ; 

Whatever  the  journey  still  trustful  I  am, 

For  the  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  and  I  am  his  lamb. 


THE  EVERY-DAY  SORROW.  77 


XXVII. 
THE  EVERY-DAY  SORROW. 

THE  troubled  tide  of  tangible  despairing 
Beats  never  unconsoled  ; 

Not  so  the  long,  low  swell  of  anguish,  bearing 
Dumb  sorrows  manifold. 

The  common  griefs  of  common  souls,  whose  level 

Is  mortals'  low  estate  ; 
Whose  voices,  deadened  by  some  loud  woe's  revel, 

In  sobbing  silence  wait  ; 

Wait  for  one  answering  cry  of  recognition, 

One  star  athwart  their  sky, 
One  promise  of  a  far-off,   fair  fruition 

For  hopes  that  waiting  die  ; 


7  8  THE  E  VER  Y-DA  Y  SORRO  W. 

And,  dying,  walk  again  in  ghostly  starkness, 

Peopling  the  gloomy  gray 
That  makes  their  heaven  murkier  than  darkness, 

And  farther  from  the  day. 

For  these  where  is  the  light  ?     Shall  that  bright  portal 
Which,  soon  or  late,  swings  wide 

For  every  soul,  reveal  a  joy  immortal 
Secure  the  other  side  ? 

Shall  some  their  crosses  lift,  till  night  upon  them 

Transfigures  all  below, 
And  wear  our  crowns  so  long  ere  they  have  won  them 

That  all  their  glory  know — 

And  these,  who,  bending,  drag  a  cross  in  sadness, 

Their  faces  to  the  dust, 
Not  carry  palms  at  last  ?  or  know  the  gladness 

Of  souls  that  rest  and  trust  ? 

Is  it  slow-slipping  beads,  or  patient  folding 
Of  stained  hands  in  prayer, 


THE  E VERY-DAY  SORROW. 


79 


That  makes  them  purer  ?  or  the  faithful  holding 
Of  what  God  gives  to  bear  ? 

Not  all  the  gathered  wisdom  of  the  sages 
Can  guess  God's  hidden  ways, 

And  yet  the  slow  unfolding  of  the  ages 
Must  still  show  forth  his  praise. 

And  all  this  mystery  of  pain,  our  spirits 
Can  neither  bear  nor  break, 

May  not  be  mystery  to  souls  who  bear  it 
In  love  and  for  love's  sake. 


8o  A    LAMP    TO    THE  FEET. 


XXVIII. 

A  LAMP  TO  THY  FEET,  AND  A  LIGHT 
TO  THY  PATH/' 

A  LAMP  to  thy  feet — not  a  splendor 
Lighting  the  hills  afar  ; 
Not  a  radiance,  solemn  and  tender, 
Of  moonlight  or  glimmering  star. 
All  around  may  be  shrouded  in  shadow 
And  dimness  and  mist  of  the  night  ; 
But  be  it  o'er  mountain  or  meadow, 
Before  us  the  path  shall  be  light ! 

Not  light  with  the  glow  of  the  morning, 
Flooded  with  sunshine  sweet  ; 

Not  e'en  the  faint  gleam  of  the  dawning, 
But  only  a  "  lamp  to  the  feet:' 


A   LAMP    TO    THE  FEET.  8 1 

If  all  the  long  road  stretched  in  whiteness, 
And  wide  fields  smiled  in  the  day, 

Should  we  move  swiftly  on  in  the  brightness, 
Or  linger  and  dream  by  the  way  ? 

He  knoweth,  wrho,  guiding  the  stranger 

Safely  in  darkness  and  light, 
Hath  hidden  the  glory  and  danger 

Alike  from  our  wandering  sight. 
He  knoweth,  who,  walking  before  us 

Bearing  the  glimmering  lamp, 
How  somber  the  shade  that  hangs  o'er  us, 

How  we  shiver  and  shrink  in  the  damp. 

For  His  locks  are  wet  with  the  night-dews, 

His  feet  are  bleeding  and  torn, 
As,  wearying  under  our  burden, 

He  treads  in  our  pathway  the  thorn. 
Though  His  lamp  lights  one  step  and  one  only. 

There's  the  mark  of  His  foot  in  the  sod  ; 
And  the  way  may  be  stormy  or  lonely, 

It  ends  in  the  smile  of  our  God  ! 
4* 


82  NOTHING  LOST, 


XXIX. 

NOTHING  LOST. 

THERE  is  no  heart,  however  lost  and  straying 
From  the  green  pastures  and  the  narrow  road, 
But  sees  afar,  sometimes,  the  soft  light  playing 
Around  the  summit  of  the  mount  of  God  ; 

And  seeing,  longs  to  try  the  upward  climbing 
Of  that  hard  path  that  leads  away  from  night, 

To  where  the  sin-dulled  ear  can  catch  the  chiming 
Of  souls  triumphant  who  have  reached  the  height. 

And  sometimes  hands  well  trained  to  evil  uses 
Will  drop  the  weapons  of  their  sin  and  strife, 

And  take  instead  the  cross  of  one.  who  chooses 
To  lose  all  things  and  gain  eternal  life. 


NOTHING  LOST.  83 

Tis  true,  the  eye  that  sees  the  mountain  glowing 
May  turn  to  shadows  ere  the  day  is  done  ; 

The  feet  most  eager  in  their  upward  going 
May  falter  ere  the  race  is  well  begun  ; 

The  hands  may  drop  the  burdens  and  the  crosses; 

The  quickened  ear  forget  the  heavenly  song ; 
The  wrecked  soul  drift,  forgetful  of  its  losses, 

And  all  the  right  go  back  again  to  wrong. 

And  yet  while  life  goes  on — a  restless  fever, 
With  good  ennobled  and  with  evil  curst — 

Each  restless  longing,  and  each  grand  endeavor, 
And  each  high  hope  are,  to  that  fever's  thirst, 

Like  one  more  drop  from  a  celestial  river 
That  waters  all  the  region,  wide  and  fair, 

Where  wanderers  go  no  more  out  forever, 

When  once  have  shut  the  golden  gates  of  prayer. 


84  THE  KNEELING  PLACE. 


XXX. 

THE   KNEELING   PLACE. 

THRO'  somber  temples  taper  lights  are  gleaming. 
Often  God's  light  instead 

Thou  hast,  through  window  small  the  white  moon 
streaming, 

And  stars  o'erhead. 
Up  thro'  the  hushed  air  of  these  sacred  places 

White  prayers  are  drifted. 
Here  rise  the  pleadings  low  of  sad,  still  faces 

In  tears  uplifted. 

High  thoughts,  and   words,  and   music  strong  and 
sweet 

May  be  Faith's  token  ; 
But  tears  that  fall  in  love  at  Jesus'  feet 
Are  prayers  unspoken. 


THE   BELLS  OF  LYNN. 

XXXI. 
"THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN." 

READ  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA  AT  ROME. 

'  BELLS  OF  LYNN,"    BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. — Atlantic  Monthly. 

T  TNDER  the  calm  sky  bending  over  Rome 
*^-J          I  read  a  book  from  home. 
Slowly  its  treasures  open  to  the  sun  ; 

I  grasp  them,  one  by  one, 
And  heeding  not  the  wavering  sunlight's  play 

On  tower  and  town  that  day, 
Or  how  it  brightens  with  its  crimson  glow 

The  Alban  hills  of  snow, 
Or  that  the  Tiber  wanders  at  my  feet 

With  murmur  low  and  sweet, 
I  see  as  in  a  dream  the  white  sheep  pass 

On  the  Campagna  grass, 
And  hear  the  chirp  of  birds  and  voices  young 

The  olive  trees  among  ; 
The  squalid  beggars  haunting  each  fair  spot 

Pray,  and  I  heed  them  not ; 


86  THE  BELLS   OF  L  YNN. 

The  dark  Priest  kneeling  by  the  wayside  shrine 

Has  thought  nor  prayer  of  mine  ; 
The  distant  wastes  of  ruin  only  seem 

The  fabrics  of  a  dream  : 
For  over  all  the  stretch  of  billowy  sea 

A  voice  has  come  to  me, 
So  far,  so  dim,  and  yet  so  real  and  near, 

I  bend  my  head  to  hear, 
And  thro'  the  Eternal  City's  swell  of  tone 

Breaks  that  one  sound  alone  : 
Above  the  noise  without,  the  jar  within, 

I  hear  the  Bells  of  Lynn 
Speak  low  to  me  as.  in  the  olden  time, 

I  heard  your  dear  notes  chime  ; 
And,  as  a  tired  child  hears  a  mother's  voice, 

I  listen  and  rejoice. 

I  still  am  gathering  pebbles  all  the  day- 
It  is  no  longer  play— 
And  not  forever  by  the  sounding  sea 

Can  my  poor  gleanings  be  ; 
But  'mong  the  ruins  and  by  thorny  road 

Which  nobler  steps  have  trod, 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN.  87 

Burdened  and  weary  oft,  I  upward  press 

Beyond  all  weariness  ; 
And  breaking  softly  through  the  ways  of  pain, 

To  hear  thy  voice  again 
Is  earnest  that  the  rest  shall  soon  begin. 

Speak  on,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 
Tell  me  if  round  the  gray  rocks  of  Nahant 

Still,  still  the  wild  winds  chant ; 
If  ever,  in  your  music's  wandering  low, 

It  chanced  where  violets  grow  ;  * 
If 'mong  the  mosses  and  upon  the  hill 

The  wild  rose  climbeth  still  ; 
If  you  go  out  to  meet  the  ships  at  sea 

With  winds  for  company  ; 
Bearing  to  wanderers  the  thoughts  of  home, 

As  here  to  me  in  Rome. 
Tell  me  if  underneath  the  willow's  shade 

Any  new  graves  are  made  ; 
If — but  I  catch  the  trembling  of  thy  strain, 

And  will  not  ask  again. 
It  needs  not  voice  of  wind  or  wave  or  bell 

To  tell  me — all  is  well. 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN. 

I  know  not  how  the  golden  day  has  sped  ; 

The  home  book  is  unread  ; 
On  dome  and  spire  and  mount  and  ruined  wall 

Softly  the  shadows  fall, 
And  far  above  the  distant  city's  din 

I  hear  the  Bells  of  Lynn. 
The  shepherd  leads  his  white  lambs  to  the  fold, 

While  round  the  ruin  old 
There  clings  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun  ; 

And  slowly,  one  by  one, 
The  penitents  forsake  the  wayside  shrine  ; 

While  the  unchanging  sign 
Of  Christ's  dear  love,  uplifted  in  the  light, 

Gleams  still  and  white  ; 
And  vesper  music  with  its  healing  calm 

Falls  on  the  air  like  balm. 
Still  I  am  seeing,  even  thro'  my  tears, 

The  home  of  early  years  ; 
And  hearing,  through  the  sound  of  pain  or  sin, 

Only  the  Bells  of  Lynn; 
Thro'  all  that  is,  and  all  that  might  have  been, 

The  dear  old  Bells  of  Lynn. 


A    WISH.  89 

XXXII. 

A  WISH, 
i. 

MY  life  has  climbed  to  its  topmost  steep  ; 
I  see  the  slopes  on  the  downward  side  ; 
I  have  seen  my  sea  at  its  fullest  tide, 
And  watched  the  darkling  waters  creep, 
Out  to  the  deep,  where  a  dreamless  sleep 
Waits  whatever  has  lived  and  died. 

ii. 

And  I  backward  throw  one  line  of  prayer, 
A  frail  thread  over  the  ways  I've  trod, 
That  the  valley  glooms,  and  the  thorny  sod, 

And  the  desert's  burning  paths  of  care 

Change  to  the  gleam  of  pastures  fair, 
Under  your  step  as  you  climb  to  God. 


90  A   PRAYER. 

XXXIII. 
A  PRAYER. 

I  LONG  to  take  the  wine  of  love  and  faith, 
Which,  overflowing  once  in  crimson  flood, 
Swept  over  all  the  wastes  of  sin  and  death, 

A  great  tide  welling  from  the  heart  of  God  ; 
Which   flowed  and   ebbed,  and   to   his  feet  swept 

back 
A  world's  heart  cleansed  in  blood. 

Was  it  alone  for  one  of  old — beloved — 
Saviour,  to  lay  his  head  upon  thy  breast  ? 

And  wilt  thou  not  to-day  take  to  thy  bosom 
A  heart  that  only  there  can  find  its  rest  ? 

And  say  again,   "To  whom  is  much  forgiven 
Shall  it  be  given  to  love  and  serve  Me  best"? 


THANKS  FOR  FLOWERS.  c,  i 


XXXIV. 
THANKS  FOR  FLOWERS. 

HOW  shall  I  mold  the  blossoms  of  my  speech 
To  forms  as  fair  as  those  to-night  you  bring  ? 
How  grasp  the  garland  just  beyond  my  reach, 
Who  always  stammer  when  I  need  to  sing? 

If /had  thoughts  as  bright  as  flowers  are, 

And  words  that  made  them  gleam  like  drops  of  dew, 

Words  that  held  fragrance,  life,  and  beauty  rare, 
Then  I  would  make  a  wreath  of  them  for  you. 

But,  while  outside  the  fields  are  fair  enough, 
And  with  your  gift  my  room  is  all  aglow, 

In  mine  own  garden,  rocky-soiled  and  rough, 
Things  worthy  of  your  taking  will  not  grow. 


92  THANKS  FOR  FLOWERS. 

The  fairest  buds  with  which  it  once  was  filled 

Clouds  frowned  upon  oftener  than  sunshine  smiled  ; 

Some  drooped  in  spring,  and  some  were  winter-killed, 
And  some  grew  old  while  I  was  but  a  child. 

Here  is  one  little  sprig  of  mignonette  ; 

It  grew  close  'neath  the  shelter  of  the  wall  ; 
And  here's  one  pansy  by  the  night-dews  wet, 

Too  hardy  to  die  early — that  is  all. 

But,  cheered  and  rested  by  your  kindly  thought, 
I'll  throw  my  gardens  open  to  the  sun, 

And  maybe,  some  time,  when  my  work  is  wrought, 
And  I  need  flowers,  I  shall  find  more  than  one. 

If  it  be  true — that  saying  quaint  and  old— 

"  Kind  deeds  are  golden  grain  that  cannot  die, 

But  bringeth  to  the  sower  many  fold," 

Then  /  shall  bring  you  blossoms  by  and  by. 


LABORARE  EST  OR  ARE.  93 


XXXV. 

LABORARE   EST   ORARE. 

THE  fleecy  clouds  are  climbing  from  the  rivers, 
The  distant  mountain-tops  are  all  aglow 
With  morning's  early  light,  that,  glancing,  quivers 
Among  the  firs  that  crown  the  crags  below. 

Give  back  again  my  pilgrim  staff,  my  Father, 
To  guard  my  steps  aclown  the  dizzy  height  ; 

For,  long  before  the  evening  shadows  gather, 
I  journey  toward  a  country  out  of  sight. 

O  Father  !  tempt  me  not.  I  well  remember 
When,  blind  and  1  milled  by  the  blasts  of  fate, 

And  chilled  by  years  that  were  one  long  December, 
I  staggered  fainting  to  thy  convent  gate. 


94  LABORARE  EST  ORARE 

Can  I  forget  thy  ministry  of  healing, 

The  cup  of  wine,  the  sleep  in  spotless  cell, 

The  hand  of  benediction,  the  appealing 

Of  cross  and  saint  and  shrine  and  vesper-bell. 

The  days  of  calm,  the  nights  of  solemn  splendor, 
The  heights  of  silence,  where  e'en  murmurs  cease, 

The  spirit's  tender  and  serene  surrender 
To  the  incoming  of  abiding  peace  ? 

Oh  !  sweet  indeed  the  rest  upon  the  mountains, 
This  strength  from  out  the  everlasting  hills, 

This  draught  of  life  from  purest  upland  fountains, 
This  sight  of  Heaven  that  all  my  vision  fills. 

But,  Father,  here  I  came  through  desert  dangers  ; 

I  held  my  breaking  staff  with  bleeding  hand, 
And  left  behind  me  weary,  stricken  strangers 

A  thirst  and  fainting  on  the  shifting  sand. 

The  desert  wells  were  dry  ;  my  flask  was  broken  ; 

Too  frail  for  mine  own  weakness  was  my  rod  ; 
The  hot  skies  gave  their  lifted  eyes  no  token  ; 

No  rain-cloud  answered  to  their  cry  to  God. 


LABORARE  EST  ORARE.  95 

They  pilgrims  too,  alas  !  with  none  to  love  them  ; 

Their  spent  lives  languished,  while  God  quickened 

mine  ; 
Rain  fell  for  me — the  heavens  were  brass  above  them ; 

I  only  reached  the  mountains,  gained  the  shrine. 


True,  they  were  spared  my  long  and  dreary  climbing, 
My  battling  with  the  tempest  and  the  cold  ; 

But  oh  !  my  Father,  they  have  missed  the  chiming 
Of  my  sweet  bells,  my  shepherd,  and  my  fold. 

E'en  here,  on  these  cool  steeps,  hot  throbs  of  anguish 
Repeat  in  mine  own  veins  their  pulse  of  pain  ; 

I,  too,  beneath  the  desert- fever  languish  ; 

Their    striving   drowns    my    peace,    their    loss   my 
gain. 

Their  hunger  robs  my  daily  bread  of  sweetness, 
Their  moans  thread  sadly  my  triumphant  psalm. 

Let  me  go  down  to  share  in  its  completeness 
Their  woes,  or  lift  them  up  to  share  this  calm. 


96  LABORARE  EST  ORARE. 

Oh,  idle  rest,  while  dearer  souls  are  straying  ! 

Oh,  selfish  joy,  while  these  are  unforgiven  ! 
Oh,  vanity  of  vague  and  voiceless  praying  ! 

If  but  for  this  our  stained  souls  were  shriven. 

Nay  ;  let  me  tarry  on  the  heights  no  longer. 

Round  purer  heart  I  wrap  the  pilgrim  dress  ; 
In  purer  touch  the  trembling  staff  is  stronger  ; 

My  face  is  steadfast  toward  the  wilderness, 

To  help  the  helpless,  strengthen  those  who  falter, 
To  lead  to  light  the  sorrowing  and  blind, 

To  reach  once  more  my  sacred  mountain  altar  ; 
But  not  to  leave  the  weaker  ones  behind. 

Should  such  sweet  grace  to  my  rude  hands  be  given 
To  bind  up  wounds,  to  lift  the  stricken  up  ; 

Each  sufferer  shall  see  the  smile  of  Heaven 
Outshining  on  him  from  the  healing  cup. 

And  should  I  perish  by  the  way,  another 
Will  surely  struggle  up  to  where  I  rest  ; 

By  mantle,  scrip,  and  staff  will  know  a  brother, 
And,  by  this  little  cross  upon  my  breast, 


LABORARE  EST  ORARE. 


97 


Will  know  my  soul  has  dwelt  in  peace  up  higher, 
Will  take  my  little  store  of  oil  and  wine, 

And  quickened  by  the  glow  of  inward  fire, 

Mount  e'en  to  heavenly  heights  beyond  my  shrine. 


But  see  !  the  mists  are  fleeing  while  I  linger, 
The  distant  hills  have  lost  their  rosy  glow, 

And  underneath  the  touch  of  Day's  soft  finger 

Have  wrapped  themselves  in  robes  of  purest  snow. 

I  bend  my  head,  my  Father,  for  thy  blessing  ; 

I  go — not  like  the  mountains — clad  in  white  ; 
Yet  falls  on  me,  like  mother's  hand  caressing, 

The  silent  benediction  of  the  light. 


98  MY  MO THER ' S  BIR THDA  Y. 


XXXVI. 

MY  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY. 

JANUARY    18,  1874. 

ON    THE     NILE. 

E  is  lying  there  upon  the  hill-side, 
And  her  grave  is  covered  by  the  snow-wreaths; 
Snow-white  blossoms  hang  on  all  the  laurels, 
And  the  willows  bend  beneath  their  burden, 
And  the  dead  leaves  and  the  earth's  brown  bosom 
Share  with  her  the  robe  of  radiant  whiteness. 
She  is  calm  and  pale  and  very  silent, 
And  her  hands  are  folded  from  their  labor, 
And  she  does  not  hear  my  worn  heart  call  her, 
"Mother,  wake,  and  keep  with  me  thy  birthday  I" 

I  am  here  beside  the  sullen  river 

Whose  overflowing  made  the  nations  mighty, 


M  Y  MO  THER '  S  BIR  THDA  Y.  99 

With  the  desert  mountains  lifting  round  me, 
And  the  wind-swept  changing  sands,  revealing 
Day  by  day  grave  shadows,  dim  and  somber, 
Kingly  tombs  that  mark  the  desolation 
Promised  in  the  burning  words  of  prophets. 
Yet  I  lift  mine  eyes  up  to  the  palm-boughs, 
Waving  softly  by  the  yellow  Nile  bank  ; 
And  my  soul  flies  swiftly  from  the  Winter, 
Swiftly  from  my  own  hot  desert  pathway, 
To  another  land,  where  we,  together — 
Mother  of  the  blessed  heart  of  patience, 
Child  of  wayward  will  and  wearied  spirit — 
Meet  as  truly  as  we  met  in  birthdays 
Ere  to  thee  had  come  the  bliss  of  dying, 
Ere  to  me  had  come  the  grief  to  lose  thee. 


In  that  land  where  thou  art  now  a  dweller 
Snows  nor  burning  suns  can  bar  our  meeting, 
And  the  flow  of  an  eternal  river, 
And  the  breath  of  winds  in  banks  of  greenness, 
Gives  me  from  afar  a  voice  of  greeting. 


100  MY  MO THER  ' S  BIR THDA  Y. 

There  thou  hast  the  palms  without  ths  desert; 
There  the  plains  on  which  no  blight  has  rested  ; 
There  the  mounts  of  God  that  hide  no  secrets, 
As  these  hills  that  hide  the  tombs  of  rnonarchs 
And  the  graves  of  nations  long  since  buried  ; 
There  thou  hast  the  bliss  of  the  beloved. 
Evermore  I  know  the  little  children 
Come  around  thee  with  their  old  caressing. 
There  the  years  slip  by,  and  birthdays  find  thee 
With  the  pain-marks  faded  from  thy  forehead  ; 
With  the  eyes  that  watched  us  in  our  childhood 
Only  growing  deeper,  sweeter,  clearer 
With  the  mother-love,  that  brings  thee  nearer 
All  that's  holy,  while  it  holds  us  dearer, 
Caring  even  when  our  weak  hearts  wander. 

Mother,  when  this  day  was  at  its  dawning, 

Crept  I  softly  in  the  early  twilight 

To  thy  heart,  and  left  there  all  my  burden  ; 

And  I  felt  the  angels,  who  must  love  thee, 

Could  not  bring  a  gift  THY  heart  would  prize  more 

Than  the  love  that  climbs  e'en  to  thy  heaven 


M  Y  MO  THER '  S  BIR  THDA  Y.  i  o  I 

From  the  spot,  where,  in  her  upward  journey, 
Thine  own  child  has  lain  down  worn  and  tired. 

Sweet  to  thee  must  be  celestial  hymning; 

But  I  know,  through  all  the  heavenly  praises, 

Thou  hast  bent  thine  ear  to  catch  my  whispers  ; 

Thou  hast  reached  thy  soft  hand  down  to  bless  me  ; 

Thou  art  happier  in  thy  life  of  gladness 

For  the  mighty  love  thy  child  doth  bring  thee. 


102  A  MOTHER'S  QUESTION. 


XXXVII. 
A  MOTHER'S  QUESTION. 

I'VE  sometimes  wondered  if  the  stricken  woman, 
Who  wept  in  anguish  by  the  Crucified, 
Found  in  her  mother  nature,  fond  and  human, 
No  longing  to  be  nearer  while  he  died. 

Just  to  have  held  his  head  upon  her  breast, 
And  loving  looks  and  kisses  showered  down  ; 

With  burning  tears,  that  could  not  be  repressed, 
Scattered  like  jewels  in  his  thorny  crown. 

Or,  if  this  yearning  asked  of  God  too  much, 
If  she  would  be  denied  a  care  so  sweet, 

Surely  she  might,  with  tender,  reverent  touch, 

Have  wiped  the  blood-drops  trickling  from  his  feet. 


NOTE. — The  author  desires  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of 
the  Galaxy,  National  Repository,  Independent,  Christian  Union, 
Evening  Post,  and  other  periodicals — the  original  publishers  of 
the  foregoing  poems. 


